


Snitches and Talkers Get Stitches and Walkers

by quwinto



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quwinto/pseuds/quwinto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tybalt is back in Verona.<br/>Mercutio misses when their conversations weren't completely made up of insults.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightcrawlers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcrawlers/gifts), [jimkirkk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimkirkk/gifts).



> For Ezra and AJ, who continually put up with me crying over my dead trash sons. This one's for y'all.

Tybalt knows he is not functioning.

He remembers the fits; that is to say he remembers being informed of them. He blacks out when they begin and comes to in varying degrees of disrepair, from scratches to bruised knuckles and locks of hair in tightly clenched fists. And yet, he still ventures into Verona after wiping his face. Sometimes he doesn’t think to. It doesn’t matter, let them talk. Who’s to say if he’s been brawling? All Capulets do. It’s their specialty, whereas Montagues strike with forked tongues that allow for the gouged to bleed into gutters at all times of day. Either way, he stills plays his game. He sits at his uncle’s table and fights his way through dinner, then bolts his door shut and succumbs to another bout of the plague in his mind and screams and screams until his throat tears.

In between these moments of only god could know what this insanity is that Tybalt bears, in the gaps of pure shining clarity, he holds onto few memories.

The most prominent is the one man he has fought. The only one who has brought blood to his face along with the flush of anger at his pretty words spiked with venom and taunts. Mercutio, whom Tybalt hates with a passion rivaled only perhaps by Romeo’s infamous pension for rash actions. They remain two sides of a coin none are very eager to flip.

Mercutio, with his harsh jests, and Tybalt’s quick temper, coupled with their love of fighting, makes for bloody teeth and bite marks on knuckles.

Your childhood days are over, boys.

 


	2. Don't You Dare

Neither of them could tell you when this started; actually, a few steps back and then we’ll begin. Before this. Before now.

Tybalt and Mercutio created the monster that is the clashing of their heads. Each one of them knows this. They created this monster with their snarled insults and hands hovering over dagger hilts. Now, Mercutio knows Tybalt is faltering, and Tybalt does not know that he knows.

So Mercutio continues their dance, dodging, parrying, insulting, arousing, knowing that no matter what occurs, he has the upper hand.

And then Tybalt has a fit during a brawl. Mercutio has him against a wall and he’s gotten in a few good hits but Tybalt doubles over with his throat still in Mercutio’s hand and Mercutio—Mercutio is struck silent by the intensity with which Tybalt shakes and a grating moan of what can only be described as agony rips itself from Tybalt's bleeding lips and makes itself known in the night air. Mercutio only watches as Tybalt spits out the blood in his mouth and gapes at nothing while his hands tangle in his hair and he drops to his knees to begin shouting in abstract terror. Something in Mercutio urges him to shake the monstrous torment out of Tybalt which he does by grasping the Capulet’s shoulders and pulling the distressed man to his chest. Tybalt's hands release from his hair and curl around his sworn enemy’s back. His shivering eventually fades down to nothing. Tybalt is wrenched out of the darkness back into clarity and the sensation of warmth and comfort.

“Let them talk.” Tybalt’s voice trembles with his fury. Mercutio stops himself from starting at the unexpected sound and says, “I have kept your secret for many a week and it will remain unspoken from my lips.” Tybalt licks his lips then, the tang of iron contaminating his senses and he turns and Mercutio is breathing hard and wiping his bloody face on his sleeve and Tybalt is seized by a strange urge to seize his adversary and—and … do what he does not know.

He leaves instead.

Tybalt climbs through his third story window—well, not his as he is staying with his uncle only temporarily—and collapses into the room and into another fit.

This time the rooms spins rather than blots out and Tybalt’s hands slam against the ground as he chokes and coughs up blood through increasingly frenzied panting and the starts of a sob surface through the bloody hacking. When the room comes to a stop in his vision he wipes his face and finds that he’s been crying just as another breathy sob wrenches unbidden from his throat. He lifts his already blood smeared hands to his head to check for more injuries and they come away miraculously the same. Tybalt uncurls from his position on the floor to stand unsteadily and sit upon the bed instead. The bed his uncle is lending him is much too soft for his liking, he’s more used to hard beds after nights of hard fighting and drinking his father’s hard liquor.

Everything in Verona is too soft for Tybalt. The wine does not affect him and neither do the soft ladies whose fingers attempt to tempt him into giving them coins for their company. Tybalt dislikes gentleness, or perhaps he has learned to spurn it from years of being taught to hate.

Hate is rough edges and screamed abuse and bloodstained teeth. Verona is tainted, but it is not made of hate as Tybalt is.


	3. What A Catch

Mercutio waits for more gossip about Tybalt to reach his ears. a direct confrontation would achieve nothing but unwanted rumors and unneeded bruises.

Instead of hearing gossip, he observes the absence of Tybalt himself. The Capulet isn’t in the tavern as he usually is. The booth he and his cousins usually occupy is empty, save for Gregory and Sampson. _Boring_ , Mercutio thinks as he tips his chair back with a yawn.

Midnight passes. Mercutio sets down his wine and hauls himself out of his chair. Romeo catches his arm and laughs.

“Where must thou rush off to, dear Mercutio? ‘Tis barely halfway through the night! Stay, and entertain with that silver tongue of yours!” His friend implores.

“Nay, dear Romeo. I must explore the night and come to know each of its mistresses.”

Mercutio laughs at Romeo’s disappointed gaze and strolls into the night, swaying only slightly. He doesn’t find Tybalt that night. Perhaps the Capulet was within reach, but Mercutio simply did not open his eyes widely enough to see that.

Mercutio does not find Tybalt the next night either.

The third night is more successful.

Mercutio sees Tybalt walking in the direction of Lord Capulet’s mansion and skips after him to playfully tug on his cloak.

“Dearest Tybalt, for what appalling reason hast thou decided to avoid me? I am wounded by your scorn and wish for it to be purged from our relationship,” Mercutio's mouth does not curl around this jest because he is not sure of his own intentions or sincerity. Tybalt tugs himself out of Mercutio’s grasp and brushes imaginary dust off his cloak.

"Away with you, Montague. I have no desire for your games tonight.”

“Why so tight-lipped and stern, my dear Tybalt? Hast thou tired of my charm and wit in the few weeks thou hast passed in Verona? What a shame! Here I was, believing you enjoyed my marvelous company. After all, you did when we were—”

“The past has no place here for it is past. Keep your sharp words, and I’ll keep mine dagger clean.”

“A threat! A threat from mine own dear Capulet! Thou could not hurt me even if thou desirest so.” Mercutio laughs and throws an arm around his—what he and Tybalt are he cannot truly say anymore—perhaps adversary’s shoulder. Tybalt huffs, which is far better than a snarl, and pushes Mercutio’s hand off.

“Begone, Montague sympathizer, or I shall be forced to beat you out of mine sight.”

“Surely thou jest, dear Tybalt! For my sympathies”—here he presses a hand to his own chest—“do lie with thee and thy pretty lips,” and here Mercutio hooks a hand behind Tybalt’s neck and pulls him forward to place his entire body against his enemy’s and his other hand on the crucifix resting on Tybalt’s chest. He curses the darkness for he cannot see the look on his old friend’s? interest’s? face. Tybalt remains silent, most likely storming with anger but unwilling to make a scene and bring people near when he is so close to a “Montague sympathizer.”

“You do me wrong with your false words and accusations,” Mercutio breathes, leaning forward so that he is right by Tybalt’s ear. He can feel Tybalt’s shoulders tremor with anger most likely, not fear, perhaps indignation or astonishment. Tybalt is anything but fearful.

Instead of pulling away, Mercutio keeps his hand on Tybalt’s neck, rubbing circles onto the cold skin there until his tremors diminish and cease. He decides to follow an impulse to nip at his affection’s? enemy’s? ear but alas—

Tybalt draws away suddenly, leaving Mercutio missing the feel of his skin and missing an opportunity.

“Leave me be, Montague. I tire of your silver-wrapped falsehoods,” He whirls away and stalks down the road to wrench open lord Capulet’s door.

Mercutio mourns the loss; of what, he is not sure.

 

 


	4. Confessions From Liars

Back to this. What is between the two now is more than a rivalry, more than a simple relationship. It is less of the feud and more of the raw emotions hurled into the air between their bodies bedecked in thin veils of insults.

They slip in between each other’s fingers and share breaths but never come any closer. The tension hangs on their limbs and hearts, ready to snap.

Their insults become half hearted whenever they rarely cross paths these days, and Mercutio begins throwing out—no, entreating with “dear Tybalt”s and “mine Capulet”s. And the object of these not quite affections flushes with indignation as if each utterance is an attack upon his family and own person.

“Why dost thou hate me so, mine Capulet? Have I so injured thee that my presence drives thee to flee any establishment or ground we may by chance share? What can I do to rectify what I have done to maim thee? Tell me, Tybalt, and it shall be done! I beg of thee I must know the reason for this—”

“Silence! Enough of your games! Enough of your insults! Begone, begone, begone! I hate what thou hast become less than what I myself am but none the less I do not wish to put myself through the agony of your company tonight or any night or any day, for that matter. Leave me be! I said it nights ago, I will say it again. Leave me be, Montague! We are enemies, rivals, adversaries. This continued chase is—”

“Necessary, dear Tybalt! For thou wouldst not instigate a meeting with me yourself! So I am forced to give chase because I want to—no, I must know what I did to drive thee from any interaction with me! You do not even fight anymore, you barely throw insults at me. What has occurred that so changed you?”

For once, Tybalt is speechless. He glares at Mercutio, standing in the small street, and opens his mouth then shuts it again for the words will not surface.

Mercutio takes another step forward, and Tybalt retreats, and this dance repeats itself while Mercutio asks, “Tybalt, I do confess I miss the days where the feud did not affect myself or thyself. I miss when I could talk to you openly without seeing you the next day with blackened eyes that you refused to speak of. I miss being a child, carefree and so happy to be in your company. so why now do you protest so that I am seeking your company not to bruise or break you, but to possibly make amends?”

Tybalt’s back presses into the end of the alley and Mercutio steps nearer, an arm’s length away perhaps.

Tybalt seizes Mercutio’s shirt and whirls him around so he is against the wall. Tybalt’s lips are peeled back from his teeth in a snarl, but it is less predatory and more defensive, even though he has Mercutio in his grasp.

“Capulets and Montagues are mortal enemies. We shed each other’s blood, we do not make amends. We tear out each other’s throats, we do not shake hands. And we do not speak sadly of each other’s wounds. If a Montague was beaten I would—” here Tybalt’s voice falters as he takes a breath “—I would not worry about how he received it, but celebrate that my enemy has been hurt. Capulets are walking fires, we are hate compressed into human forms. We are not allowed to change." Tybalt realizes he is reiterating exactly what his father beat into him and chokes down a sob at the agony of the memory's resurfacing coupled with the stress of the current situation.

"I avoid you because—” Tybalt’s hands fisted in Mercutio’s shirt shake, and his head dips to rest on Mercutio’s collar bone like a pilgrim begging forgiveness from a saint for one small moment before it snaps up and Tybalt continues “—because I do not wish to see you. I do not wish to destroy you as I am supposed to.” His voice wobbles and he chokes on his own words. “I am not a perfect Capulet. but I must be for my own sake. and it is not so hard to be a perfect Capulet if I do not have to think about you.” Tybalt’s voice breaks, just as the rest of him truly breaks, and the walking fire of hate cannot hold onto his thin veil of control anymore as his head drops to press into Mercutio’s chest.

Mercutio lifts one hand to rest on Tybalt’s curls, tangling his fingers into the dark hair there to provide an anchor and lifts Tybalt’s face to rest on his shoulder. His other hand cradles the Capulet’s back as sobs wrack through him. Mercutio pulls Tybalt against his chest, sheltering him as he allows himself to break. They stay like that. For how long, Mercutio does not know as he does not bother to count the seconds. 

The first thing Tybalt does when he raises his head is wipe his face. Capulets do not shed tears or show emotions other than rage and celebration at the defeat of foes. He uncurls his hands from Mercutio’s shirt and lets them drop to his sides. His eyes are dull and on fixed on the ground. Mercutio releases his hold and beats him to speaking.

“I told thee that I would not breathe a word of your … fits. If I should breathe a word of this, I will make sure whoever hears it takes their last.” Mercutio has never spoken with more sincerity than now. Tybalt swallows past his dry throat and nods.

“I thank thee, Mercutio. Thou art doing me a great service.” Mercutio’s hands tremble in an effort not to reach out to Tybalt as he steps away.

 

Tybalt crawls through the window to his room in his uncle’s house and sits underneath the sill. He knows he has a chance of staying here indefinitely, but his father might die soon, with his constant fighting even in old age. Or even worse, Tybalt could be summoned home by a choice of his father’s sporadic mind. He shivers at the thought, uneager to return to such a loud and violent household in comparison to his uncle's, gripping his own upper arms in a hope that he will not dissolve into a fit.

It never worked before. And it still doesn’t.

The last thing he remembers is gripping his head so forcefully a stinging pain erupts and his fingers touch what he knows to be his own blood.

 

When Tybalt comes to, he’s curled up on the bed, rather than still on the floor below the window.

“It took quite a while to figure out which window was yours, dear king of cats. You had to take the third story one, didn’t you? You just love digging your claws into trees while climbing.” Mercutio’s voice is very close, but not as mocking as he expected. It has an undercurrent of concern behind the gentle teasing, a tenderness Tybalt is not used to and reminds him of when he scraped his knees as a child and Mercutio joked about him being clumsy but still cleaned the wounds for him. Tybalt gathers his thoughts and opens his mouth halfheartedly to tell him to get out but Mercutio shakes his head.

“My dear Capulet, do not exhaust yourself by asking me to leave. I have no desire to yet and I know that thou do not truly desire me gone if I remember correctly what thou said to me earlier.”

Tybalt sits up to be on the same level as Mercutio and goes to wipe his face, and his wrists are grasped gently and his hands are held instead.

“Your face is fine, my lovely, vain king of cats. Do not inflame your wounds further. Your head is bad enough already.” A few seconds of silence follow the soft statement until Mercutio’s jesting nature breaks the silence.

“Truly Tybalt, for what reason did you choose the third floor room? So you can nearly fall to your death every time you sneak back into your home to avoid your own cousins?” Tybalt licks his lips and cracks them open to respond.

“Perhaps. Perhaps I did not want visitors coming in the night to slit my throat," Mercutio smiles at this statement, "For very few can make the climb up. Perhaps I did not want my uncle seeing me leave and come home every night with no blood on my hands, even if my aunt would be proud.” Tybalt stops speaking cradle his pounding head in his hands. Mercutio’s hands hover over his adversary before resting on his back in a soft reassurance.

The night is not so hateful anymore.

 


	5. Heed the Call

They continue this odd relationship. Tybalt avoids Mercutio when the sun is out but never takes his eyes off the Prince's cousin when Mercutio climbs into his room at night. Mercutio is there to ease his fits which manifest themselves as nightly terrors that Tybalt cannot control or describe. Mercutio stays every night and makes sure Tybalt does not injure himself when he succumbs to his personal madness. And Tybalt trusts Mercutio again as when they were children playing in the streets of Verona. An unspoken feeling of need for each other wraps itself around them and Mercutio is reluctant to leave, Tybalt reluctant to see him go.

Weeks pass.

Mercutio is getting ready to slip out of Tybalt's window. Tybalt fists his hands in Mercutio's shirt and pulls him close to rest his head on his—he does not know what to call his old adversary anymore—Mercutio's chest. His eyes close and Mercutio places his hands on Tybalt's tightening knuckles.

“My father has sent for me.” Mercutio sucks in a breath. Tybalt told him that his stay in Verona was a tentative thing that could end any day. And yet, Mercutio declined to stop coming to Tybalt's room when told that. Now Tybalt will be leaving, and if his father dies while he is home he will have to stay and be head of his family. His mother will expect him to arrange the funeral and grieve with her. He is, after all, the only child his mother bore. Perhaps if he had told them he wanted to stay in Verona before this he would have never had to return. But it is too late for what ifs. Mercutio will lose Tybalt a second time and there is nothing to stop this horrible hand of fate dragging Tybalt back to his far off home steeped in abuse, blood, and hatred. Tybalt uncurls his hands from Mercutio's shirt and smooths the fabric with trembling hands, head still down.

“I am to return within the week.” His voice holds out until the last word which comes out as barely a breath to hide the break in his otherwise steady tone. Mercutio tightens his hold on Tybalt's shaking hands.

“Tybalt, rise thine eyes.” Tybalt's head leans up to look Mercutio in the eye. “Dearest Capulet, thou shalt see me every night until thou depart.” His voice does not betray the distress he truly feels. The silver tongued jester drops a kiss the hot headed brawler's knuckles and flashes a smile and then he is gone just as Eos dips her rosy fingers in the oceans to sprinkle the morning dew in a path for Helios's horses to follow.

The night before Tybalt is to leave Verona, the pair is by the window. It is not yet midnight, the clock has barely passed the half mark of eleven yet there they stand. Mercutio has his hands on either side of Tybalt's head, Tybalt's hands holding his friend's? (Tybalt does not know what he can call Mercutio) wrists.

“It would be harder to say it in the daylight, so goodbyes must be spoken now.” Tybalt's eyes are closed, but it is a peaceful rest rather than the stressed clenching of a fit. He moves to step away—

“Thou wilt leave me so unsatisfied?” Mercutio means to crow the words but they come out a lover's prayer whispered to a rosary he does not own. Instead of kissing the nonexistent beads, Mercutio leans forward to press his lips to Tybalt's, a gentle pressure as he has never seen Tybalt kiss a woman but he shouldn't have worried for Tybalt's hands slide to wrap around his back and he presses back into Mercutio with the love of one who's heart has never been broken and Mercutio's hands are on Tybalt's jaw and their lips are parting to let in air and let tongues slide and for once there are no venomous words or any words at all rolling off their tongues and Tybalt's breath into Mercutio's mouth is perhaps all he ever needs to survive. Tybalt steps into Mercutio and his lips are right next to his lover's? affection's? ear and he does not murmur endearments for they do not sit well on his tongue but rather he asks if, dear Montague, would you desire to stay the night? and Mercutio whispers back yes, yes, I do hold many desires and they are all reserved for you, my dear Tybalt.

There are many more frenzied kisses and intermingled breaths that night and perhaps Tybalt did end up with hand prints on his waist and thighs and perhaps Mercutio woke up with a ring of bite marks on his neck but that's neither here nor there.

What matters is that Mercutio still climbed out the window just after Helios woke his steeds. And Tybalt kissed him goodbye this time.


	6. With Bruises Tainted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for abuse in this chapter, mostly describing what growing up as a Capulet was like.

The carriage lurches to a stop. Tybalt would have preferred to travel just by horse but his father insisted on a carriage. Or rather, his father sent a carriage without writing for Tybalt's thoughts on the matter of transportation.

Tybalt frowns at the house door framed by his window, uneager to step out and face the reality of being home. He breathes deeply, trying to find strength not to dissolve into a fit and steps out of the carriage. A servant opens the door when he knocks and his cloak is taken wordlessly. His mother is in the main hall and embraces him when he enters.

“My darling Tybalt;” she says, smiling as she holds him. When Tybalt was young they were each other's only kindred faces in the household they share with Tybalt's father's indomitable, unpredictable rage. The servants fetched them herbs to heal their bruises, yes, but Tybalt and his mother were the ones who applied them to each other every time after their father gripped them too harshly or slapped them for speaking out of turn. Tybalt closes his eyes against the softness of his mother's dress. She is the only good thing left in this home. He cannot count himself for he still does what his father asks and stands by when his mother is beaten by the man who swore to cherish her.   
Tybalt's father does not greet him, for which Tybalt is thankful. He hides in his room until a servant calls him down to dinner. His father sits at the head and gestures for Tybalt to sit to his left. His eyes are already blazing with alcohol and the fiery spirit of a Capulet fresh from a brawl. This part of Italy knows very few rules. Town wide brawls and duels to the death are as commonplace as brothels and street side whores.

Everything about Tybalt's father is loud. The noise grates at Tybalt's ears and threatens to send him spiraling into a fit if he does not escape somewhere quieter.

The sounds Tybalt’s chair makes when he pushes away from the table rubs his father the wrong way. 

“How now, son. Wherefore art thou leaving so soon? You are finally home and yet you desire not to sup with your own family? What stirs your blood?” His father says, splintering off bits of Tybalt’s patience with each words. He grinds his teeth and stands his ground.

“The journey was long, and I am fatigued, my lord. I wish only to rest so that I may join you in tomorrow at my full potential.” Lying through his teeth to his father’s face has always been remarkably easy for Tybalt, although when he was found out it always meant harder beatings.

Tybalt bolts the door of his chamber shut as soon as he is inside and lets out a long breath. Looking around his room brings back many unwanted memories of being alone while his parent are out fighting or just simply gone for a few days.

 

He is ten and his father thrusts a blade into his hand.

“Kill him,” he snarls, speaking about the Montague laying in the street. The man is not dead but he cannot run. Blood flows from his mouth and Tybalt can see his chest shudder with the agony of each breath.

“Kill the bastard, you useless shit!” Tybalt’s father roars. Tybalt stumbles forward to kneel next to the dying man. He studies the way the blood runs down his neck and soaks his shirt. The hand holding the dagger his father gave him trembles and Tybalt looks away, stabbing the knife into the man’s abdomen.

His father’s voice is close to his ear.   
“That’s my boy.”

He blacks out.

 

On his twelfth birthday, his father teaches him the importance of not having a heart. The knife slides over his skin across his chest and Tybalt fights to not let tears well up in his eyes 

“See? It's better to cut out your heart, boy. Capulets have no need for hearts. Destroy yours and fill the space with nothing but hatred.” Tybalt nods, what else is he supposed to say? His father punctuates the last words with a shallow stab. The knife is left in his shoulder until he finds a servant to pull it out and dress the wound. 

He still does not cry. 

 

When he is fourteen, he gets between his mother and father during one of their fights. He heard the shouting from across the house and bolted, knowing that his father's hits become harder if you continue to fight him. 

When he finally gets to their room, his father has his hands on his mother's wrists and he's shaking and screaming at her.

"Give up the feud? Forget the injustice the horrid Montagues thrust upon us? Destroy our honor?" He yells. 

"Father, you're hurting her!" Tybalt interrupts, fearing for his mother's life. 

"Silence, boy! This is for your future! Our future! The future of all Capulets!" His father roars back, making Tybalt wish to shrink back into himself. Instead he runs forward to tug his mother out of his father's grasp and stand between them. 

"Out of my way, boy." Tybalt's father backhands him and his mother screams. He remembers hitting the floor and then, darkness.

 

Tybalt comes back to himself abruptly. He needs to get out. He must get out. It doesn't matter whether or not he goes back to Verona. He cannot stay here. 


	7. Not So Sweet Not Quite Home

Mercutio pines. He is too proud to say it, but he does. He does not enjoy nights at the taverns as much anymore. He misses the secretive glances he and Tybalt would exchange over the rims of their respective wine glasses. Now the wine seems more sour than he remembers, the words he entertains his friends with more dry. Every swallow reminds him of bile and he rushes to get the taste out of his mouth. The cold glasses are a far cry from the way it felt to kiss Tybalt. He wishes they had done that earlier, had spent for time in intimacy before he left. And who knows if Tybalt will be back? If his father dies he’ll be free to come back to Verona. But that could be far off. For better or for worse, the only thing Mercutio can do is hope.

He plays their last night together over and over in his head. The way Tybalt bit and mouthed at his jaw as he unlaced the Capulet’s shirt, Tybalt’s hands ghosting over his chest. Every now and then he is pulled from his reverie by nudges from Romeo or Benvolio to tell a joke and he obliges, if only to put his own pain at bay for a moment.

He hopes for Tybalt to return to Verona, nothing more.

  
  
Tybalt is only home for a week before another fight breaks out. Shouts from the town square draw Montagues and Capulets running, drawing swords and daggers. Tybalt stands in the street, frozen, as people brush past him to join the fray. He can already see people falling in battle and can hear his father shouting, but he has no urge to join. Instead he wrenches open the door to his father’s house and runs through the halls to get to the stable out back. His favorite stallion is still there, hot-headed and hard to handle, just like Tybalt. He runs a hand down the horse's neck, the stallion whickering in greeting. He unlocks the tack room, hands shaking, and takes what he needs, then saddles the horse.

He has one foot in a stirrup and the horse can feel his unease. The stallion shifts and knickers as he pulls himself onto the saddle and turns to press him into a fast trot, glancing around to make sure no one is watching. All the Capulets and Montagues are most likely still fighting, and he spurs the horse into a canter, wanting to put as many miles as possible between him and his father.

Every few minutes, Tybalt glances over his shoulder. He’s taking the long way back to Verona, hoping his father will arrive there first, not find him, and leave all before he gets there. He leans down to pat his horse’s neck, smiling to himself.

Tybalt arrives in Verona six days later at dusk. The short route takes only two days, so his father is long gone by now. He dismounts and leads the horse to the Capulet stables.

He smiles, satisfied with his plan until he sees his father in the street. All the color drains from his face as his father’s fist hurtles through the air to connect with his jaw.

 

“Mercutio!” Romeo’s voice interrupts Mercutio’s thoughts.

“Hush thee, Romeo. I harbor no desire to entertain tonight.” He hopes this will be enough to deter his friend.

“Nay, stay, Mercutio! I saw Tybalt back in town this night! He was leading his stallion to the Capulet stables as I was to see Juliet. I dared not stay, lest I be seen and drawn into a fight; but your Tybalt is back again, good Mercutio.” Romeo is gone as he says such, slipping away out of the room, leaving Mercutio to gape after him and rush out of the house, heading toward the Capulet mansion.

 

Tybalt wakes up in his uncle’s house, pain reverberating from his face. He can hear shouting emanating from the downstairs and he winces. He touches a hand to his lip and finds it swollen and his fingers come away bloody. They become more stained when he feels his nose and temples, attesting for a possibly broken nose and head injuries. He tries to clear his throat and finds the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth and chokes, coughing as his head spins and the room tilts. He grabs his head, trying to ground himself but instead rips a few hairs from his skull and tears the wounds no doubt from his father open again. The memories of what happened drip back into his head as he loses grip on reality and descends into his own personal madness.

He remembers the fist ramming into his jaw. Then a stinging slap across the face as his father berated him for “abandoning his family” during a fight. He remembers falling from the force put into the blow and being kicked in the stomach. He might’ve been dragged by his hair at some point. The details are hazy and Tybalt doesn’t trust his memory but he knows it has happened before. He licks his lips, the tang of iron not fazing him as he breathes heavily through the pain in his chest. Some of his ribs might be broken from getting kicked. He pushes himself up from his bed slowly, exceedingly cautious not to make any loud noises. He bites his already split lip to avoid making any sounds and walks to the window, unlatching it and crawling out to climb down the side of the house. He wiped his face on his shirt, disgusted with the large amount of blood that comes away, staining his shirt. He hopes that there is little blood left on his face and sets out.

Tybalt moves from shadow to shadow in the alleys, heading toward the stables. He outstretches a hand to his horse over the stall door and pets his stallion's nose.

“We're leaving again,” he breathes, hoping the horse will stay quiet until they're far, far away from Verona. He murmurs quietly to the horse as he slips the bridle over his ears and takes the reins in one hand. Tybalt swings the stallion around to come face to face with Mercutio in the entrance to the stable.

Mercutio rushes forward to pull Tybalt into a hug, cradling Tybalt's head in one hand.

“Romeo told me you were back.” He breaks the hug and holds Tybalt at arm's length, his smile turning into a frown. “But he did not say you’d already been fighting.” He pauses, eyes flicking to the horse behind Tybalt. “Or that you’d be leaving so soon. What is the reason you fly with such haste? Hast thou fought with one who promised your death? Tell me who; I shall kill them.” Mercutio demands.

Tybalt fists one hand in Mercutio's collar and pulls him forward for a fast, hard kiss, and pulling away a few centimeters to say, “The reason I fly so quickly is the same reason I left my home; my father, who is in Verona now, saw me. He ... reacted violently to my flight from his house and took it upon himself to show me he is displeased. I aim to escape him permanently this time. I should have known he would look in Verona. So, dear Mercutio, I am parting with Verona.” He presses more kisses to Mercutio's lips. “And be sure, this is more sorrowful than it is sweet.”

“Then let us go where neither Montagues nor Capulets dwell.” Mercutio says, holding Tybalt's face in both hands.

“We can escape to my uncle's home, or Rome, or even France. No one will seek us there.” Mercutio speaks quickly, knowing they must leave soon, lest they be caught together. Tybalt nods, breaking away to make sure no one is nearby.

“Meet me by the sycamore grove, soon. I’ll be waiting.” He says.

“You shan’t wait long, my dear Capulet.” Mercutio grins.

Tybalt allows himself to grin back, satisfied.

 

  
Tybalt shifts his grip on the reins, glancing around for Mercutio. Dusk is settling in, and he has yet to come to the grove. 

“Dearest Tybalt, thou look distressed! Put off thy frowns, for I have arrived, love.” Mercutio's voice floats through the trees to Tybalt, who turns abruptly and breathes in relief. Mercutio horse snorts in greeting and Tybalt smiles.

“Let us bid the lady goodbye, then,” Tybalt says, letting his horse walk forward to the road out of Verona. 

Mercutio turns and blows a kiss to the city behind them. “Farewell, my beautiful lady! Hopefully the streets will no longer be painted red every week.” Tybalt laughs at that and Mercutio admires the smile on his face.

The ride becomes a race and Mercutio should’ve known better than to challenge the best rider in Verona to a race. Tybalt’s horse flies past him with ease as the Capulet laughs, throwing his head back in a carefree gesture that Mercutio had not seen since their childhood.

The moment is more sweet than sorrowful.


	8. Epilogue

Mercutio rather likes that no one in Rome knows of the feud. He expected its infamy had spread to every crevice in Italy, but he was, for once, mistaken. The nights are quiet except for when Tybalt and he are pressing kissing and smoothing hands over every inch of skin they can reach. He presses a kiss to Tybalt's curls, drinking in the sight of his love sleeping peacefully for once.

In Rome, they can walk down the street together, with no one screaming, “Traitors!” or “To arms!”

Tybalt still suffers through fits but Mercutio is always there to soothe him out of them and kiss away the horrid memories. The memories are constant scars, but Mercutio is there to trace every one and remind Tybalt that he is still whole.

Mercutio took Tybalt's hand last week and Tybalt looked good in the black suit jacket.

(He looked much better with it off, in Mercutio's opinion.) (He also rather liked the handprint of bruises he left on Tybalt's throat that day.) (But that's neither here nor there.)

What matters is that Tybalt trusts and loves Mercutio with all his heart and Mercutio feels the same.

And the feud cannot taint either of them anymore.


End file.
